by Waldemar » Sun May 26, 2013 10:06 am
The children sing, a feeble choir of faltering voices, but it's enough; enough for them to focus on rather than the shrieks and sounds of battle from within the cave, rather than the fiddle tune that still seeks to lure them, to entice them. Enough to keep them distracted while Waldemar works.
The circle meets its end, an unbroken ring in the forest litter, and the miller makes a second hobbling lap, augmenting the scratched line with angular sigils at the cardinal points, marks that leave fleeting afterimages as they are drawn; a ward inscribed with hidden names, calling on powers greater than his own for protection from malign forces. The children cling to one another, some singing, others sobbing or weeping, and he knows that his time is short, that his efforts will be in vain.
I have my protection, Brown. More than a lost boy with a wicked knife can provide.
Fumbling at his collar, from beneath his shirt he draws a pendant on a silken cord, a coin-sized disc of unglazed pottery, a mesh of curves and angles scratched into the clay before firing. His protection, his safeguard against dark forces, and for a span of heartbeats he hesitates, staring back over his shoulder to the cave, fearful of the horrors it contains. Not merely the child-eater, but those who fought it - dangerous, capricious, murderous and mad.
This charm and the name it bears could protect him, would protect him, would allow him to escape from this debacle, this shambolic mess in which he no longer has a stake. He could go, vanish almost as easily as the madman, and leave Brown and his friends to their fate. The children could take their chances, perhaps the monster would be defeated before it might devour more of them.
His mistake, of course, is in turning back to the terrified huddle crouched wretchedly around the rowan tree, holding hands because he'd bullied them into it, singing as best they can because he'd cowed them into tear-streaked obedience. For a moment he looks old, haggard beyond his years, and heaves a despairing sigh, lending his tone what little comfort he can muster.
"Have faith in the One True God; His angel will keep you from harm."
With a sharp gesture the old man snaps the amulet free of his neck, holding it before him in a white-knuckled fist as his lips move soundlessly; a moment of trembling effort is followed by a brittle crunch, and as the miller casts the fragments to the ground he speaks a Name that rings like a cathedral bell.
- a great rushing of countless beating wings -
- a pressure, a presence that drives the children back against the rowan trunk -
A figure stands before him, beautiful and terrible, its sword a tongue of flame; its feet upon the circle and at once every point of its circumference; a single being yet in each instant guarding every direction, gaze like the noon sun, a whirling wheel of blazing eyes, ever-vigilant, ever-watchful, fiery blades flickering back and forth between every point of the compass.
"Spare them!"
Waldemar crouches, kneels, gaze averted, arms lifted to shield his eyes; at his plea the figure is gone, its glory veiled for all that its fearsome presence remains. It has its task, its charge, and the miller is left trembling and defenceless outside the circle.
Nothing so bold as a miller's shirt, that every morning collars a thief.